ROBERT MACKAY (ROB DONN). |
Robert Mackay, called Donn, from the colour of his hair, which was brown or chestnut, was born in the Strathmore of Sutherlandshire, about the year 1714. His calling, with the interval of a brief military service in the fencibles, was the tending of cattle, in the several gradations of herd, drover, and bo-man, or responsible cow-keeper—the last, in his pastoral county, a charge of trust and respectability. At one period he had an appointment in Lord Reay's forest; but some deviations into the "righteous theft"—so the Highlanders of those parts, it seems, call the appropriation of an occasional deer to their own use—forfeited his noble employer's confidence. Rob, however, does not appear to have suffered in his general character or reputation for an unconsidered trifle like this, nor otherwise to have declined in the favour of his chief, beyond the necessity of transporting himself to a situation somewhat nearer the verge of Cape Wrath than the bosom of the deer preserve. Mackay was happily married, and brought up a large family in habits and sentiments of piety; a fact which his reverend biographer connects very touchingly with the stated solemnities of the "Saturday night," when the lighter chants of the week were exchanged at the worthy drover's fireside for the purer and holier melodies of another inspiration.[87] As a pendant to this creditable account of the bard's principles, we are informed that he was a frequent guest at the presbytery dinner-table; a circumstance which some may be so malicious as to surmise amounted to nothing more than a purpose to enhance the festive recreations of the reverend body—a suspicion, we believe, in this particular instance, totally unfounded. He died in 1778; and he has succeeded to some rather peculiar honours for a person in his position, or even of his mark. He has had a reverend doctor for his editorial biographer,[88] and no less than Sir Walter Scott for his reviewer.[89] The passages which Sir Walter has culled from some literal translations that were submitted to him, are certainly the most favourable specimens of the bard that we have been able to discover in his volume. The rest are generally either satiric rants too rough or too local for transfusion, or panegyrics on the living and the dead, in the usual extravagant style of such compositions, according to the taste of the Highlanders and the usage of their bards; or they are love-lays, of which the language is more copious and diversified than the sentiment. In the gleanings on which we have ventured, after the illustrious person who has done so much honour to the bard by his comments and selections, we have attempted to draw out a little more of the peculiar character of the poet's genius.
THE SONG OF WINTER. This is selected as a specimen of Mackay's descriptive poetry. It is in a style peculiar to the Highlands, where description runs so entirely into epithets and adjectives, as to render recitation breathless, and translation hopeless. Here, while we have retained the imagery, we have been unable to find room, or rather rhyme, for one half of the epithets in the original. The power of alliterative harmony in the original song is extraordinary. I. At waking so early
Was snow on the Ben,
And, the glen of the hill in,
The storm-drift so chilling
The linnet was stilling,
That couch'd in its den;
And poor robin was shrilling
In sorrow his strain.
II. Every grove was expecting
Its leaf shed in gloom;
The sap it is draining,
Down rootwards 'tis straining,
And the bark it is waning
As dry as the tomb,
And the blackbird at morning
Is shrieking his doom.
III. Ceases thriving, the knotted,
The stunted birk-shaw;[90]
While the rough wind is blowing,
And the drift of the snowing
Is shaking, o'erthrowing,
The copse on the law.
IV. 'Tis the season when nature
Is all in the sere,
When her snow-showers are hailing,
Her rain-sleet assailing,
Her mountain winds wailing,
Her rime-frosts severe.
V. 'Tis the season of leanness,
Unkindness, and chill;
Its whistle is ringing,
An iciness bringing,
Where the brown leaves are clinging
In helplessness, still,
And the snow-rush is delving
With furrows the hill.
VI. The sun is in hiding,
Or frozen its beam
On the peaks where he lingers,
On the glens, where the singers,[91]
With their bills and small fingers
Are raking the stream,
Or picking the midstead
For forage—and scream.
VII. When darkens the gloaming
Oh, scant is their cheer!
All benumb'd is their song in
The hedge they are thronging,
And for shelter still longing,
The mortar[92] they tear;
Ever noisily, noisily
Squealing their care.
VIII. The running stream's chieftain[93]
Is trailing to land,
So flabby, so grimy,
So sickly, so slimy,—
The spots of his prime he
Has rusted with sand;
Crook-snouted his crest is
That taper'd so grand.
IX. How mournful in winter
The lowing of kine;
How lean-back'd they shiver,
How draggled their cover,
How their nostrils run over
With drippings of brine,
So scraggy and crining
In the cold frost they pine.
X. 'Tis hallow-mass time, and
To mildness farewell!
Its bristles are low'ring
With darkness; o'erpowering
Are its waters, aye showering
With onset so fell;
Seem the kid and the yearling
As rung their death-knell.
XI. Every out-lying creature,
How sinew'd soe'er,
Seeks the refuge of shelter;
The race of the antler
They snort and they falter,
A-cold in their lair;
And the fawns they are wasting
Since their kin is afar.
XII. Such the songs that are saddest
And dreariest of all;
I ever am eerie
In the morning to hear ye!
When foddering, to cheer the
Poor herd in the stall—
While each creature is moaning,
And sickening in thrall.
DIRGE FOR IAN MACECHAN. A FRAGMENT. Mackay was entertained by Macechan, who was a respectable store-farmer, from his earliest life to his marriage. According to his reverend biographer,[94] the last lines of the elegy, of which the following is a translation, were much approved. I see the wretch of high degree,
Though poverty has struck his race,
Pass with a darkness on his face
That door of hospitality.
I see the widow in her tears,
Dark as her woe—I see her boy—
From both, want reaves the dregs of joy;
The flash of youth through rags appears.
I see the poor's—the minstrel's lot—
As brethren they—no boon for song!
I see the unrequited wrong
Call for its helper, who is not.
You hear my plaint, and ask me, why?
You ask me when this deep distress
Began to rage without redress?
"With Ian Macechan's dying sigh!"
THE SONG OF THE FORSAKEN DROVER. During a long absence on a droving expedition, Mackay was deprived of his mistress by another lover, whom, in fine, she married. The discovery he made, on his return, led to this composition; which is a sequel to another composed on his distant journey, in which he seems to prognosticate something like what happened. Both are selected by Sir Walter Scott as specimens of the bard, and may be found paraphrastically rendered in a prose version, in the Quarterly Review, vol. xlv., p. 371, and in the notes to the last edition of "The Highland Drover," in "Chronicles of the Canongate." With regard to the present specimen, it may be remarked, that part of the original is either so obscure, or so freely rendered by Sir Walter Scott's translator, that we have attempted the present version, not without some little perplexity as to the sense of one or two allusions. We claim, on the whole, the merit of almost literal fidelity. I. This is one of those lyrics, of which there are many in Gaelic poetry, that are intended to imitate pipe music. They consist of three parts, called Urlar, Siubhal, and Crunluath. The first is a slow, monotonous measure, usually, indeed, a mere repetition of the same words or tones; the second, a livelier or brisker melody, striking into description or narrative; the third, a rapid finale, taxing the reciter's or performer's powers to their utmost pitch of expedition. The heroine of the song is the same Isabel who is introduced towards the commencement of the "Forsaken Drover;" and it appears, from other verses in Mackay's collection, that it was not her fate to be "alone" through life. It is to be understood that when the verses were composed, she was in charge of her father's extensive pastoral manÉge, and not a mere milk-maid or dairy-woman. URLAR. Isabel Mackay is with the milk kye,
And Isabel Mackay is alone;
Isabel Mackay is with the milk kye,
And Isabel Mackay is alone, &c.
Seest thou Isabel Mackay with the milk kye,
At the forest foot—and alone?
SIUBHAL. By the Virgin and Son![100]
Thou bride-lacking one,
If ever thy time
Is coming, begone,
The occasion is prime,
For Isabel Mackay
Is with the milk kye
At the skirts of the forest,
And with her is none.
By the Virgin and Son, &c.
Woe is the sign!
It is not well
With the lads that dwell
Around us, so brave,
When the mistress fine
Of Riothan-a-dave
Is out with the kine,
And with her is none.
O, woe is the sign, &c.
Whoever he be
That a bride would gain
Of gentle degree,
And a drove or twain,
His speed let him strain
To Riothan-a-dave,
And a bride he shall have.
Then, to her so fain!
Whoever he be, &c.
And a bride he shall have,
The maid that's alone.
Isabel Mackay, &c.
Oh, seest not the dearie
So fit for embracing,
Her patience distressing,
The bestial a-chasing,
And she alone!
'Tis a marvellous fashion
That men should be slack,
When their bosoms lack
An object of passion,
To look such a lass on,
Her patience distressing,
The bestial a-chasing,
In the field, alone.
CRUNLUATH (FINALE). Oh, look upon the prize, sirs,
That where yon heights are rising,
The whole long twelvemonth sighs in,
Because she is alone.
Go, learn it from my minstrelsy,
Who list the tale to carry,
The maiden shuns the public eye,
And is ordain'd to tarry
'Mid stoups and cans, and milking ware,
Where brown hills rear their ridges bare,
And wails her plight the livelong year,
To spend the day alone.
EVAN'S ELEGY. Mackay was benighted on a deer-stalking expedition, near a wild hut or shealing, at the head of Loch Eriboll. Here he found its only inmate a poor asthmatic old man, stretched on his pallet, apparently at the point of death. As he sat by his bed-side, he "crooned," so as to be audible, it seems, to the patient, the following elegiac ditty, in which, it will be observed, he alludes to the death, then recent, of Pelham, an eminent statesman of George the Second's reign. As he was finishing his ditty, the old man's feelings were moved in a way which will be found in the appended note. This is one of Sir Walter Scott's extracts in the Quarterly, and is now attempted in the measure of the original. How often, Death! art waking
The imploring cry of Nature!
When she sees her phalanx breaking,
As thou'dst have all—grim feature!
Since Autumn's leaves to brownness,
Of deeper shade were tending,
We saw thy step, from palaces,
To Evan's nook descending.
Oh, long, long thine agony!
A nameless length its tide;
Since breathless thou hast panted here,
And not a friend beside.
Thine errors what, I judge not;
What righteous deeds undone;
But if remains a se'ennight,
Redeem it, dying one!
Oh, marked we, Death! thy teachings true,
What dust of time would blind?
Such thy impartiality
To our highest, lowest kind.
Thy look is upwards, downwards shot,
Determined none to miss;
It rose to Pelham's princely bower,
It sinks to shed like this!
Oh, long, long, &c.!
So great thy victims, that the noble
Stand humbled by the bier;
So poor, it shames the poorest
To grace them with a tear.
Between the minister of state
And him that grovels there,
Should one remain uncounselled,
Is there one whom dool shall spare?
Oh, long, long, &c.!
The hail that strews the battle-field
Not louder sounds its call,
Than the falling thousands round us
Are voicing words to all.
Hearken! least of all the nameless;
Evan's hour is going fast;
Hearken! greatest of earth's great ones—
Princely Pelham's hour is past.
Oh, long, long, &c.!
Friends of my heart! in the twain we see
A type of life's declining;
'Tis like the lantern's dripping light,
At either end a-dwining.
Where was there one more low than thou—
Thou least of meanest things?[101]
And where than his was higher place
Except the throne of kings?
Oh, long, long, &c.!
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